


Way of the Lawless

by BobTheDoctor27



Series: Myths and Legacy [3]
Category: Bionicle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27676363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobTheDoctor27/pseuds/BobTheDoctor27
Summary: Malum, exiled Glatorian of the Fire Tribe, endures his first year as an outcast in the Wastelands, seeking answers to the questions life in Vulcanus failed to provide.With the help of a single Vorox aide, he must secure his claim as Champion of the Sand Tribe while discovering the untold history of the Vorox. But what dangers await him on his quest beyond the edges of the map?
Series: Myths and Legacy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1519037
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

Vorox were natural explorers. 

As active carnivores, too many of them in one place would quickly overhunt any territory. Despite their nomadic nature, however, Vorox did not seek out something so predictable as a breeding ground or a nest like other creatures to roam the deserts of Bara Magna. Instead, they traveled impossible distances to the sunken canyons their clans had laid claim to before the Core War. 

Over countless generations, the social structure of the Sand Tribe warriors had grown exponentially more complex. Contact had been made with other factions, each of which possessed a regional foothold of their own. There had been some halting trade, sometimes for weapons and riches but more often for basic supplies. 

It was for this reason that Malum now traveled across the Sea of Liquid Sand, accompanied by a female Vorox from the first tribe to have submitted to his rule, following the paths of stories and rumors and third-hand accounts through what appeared to be previously-claimed territory. Three months spent skulking the Wastelands after his exile from the Fire Tribe had taught him to identify the patterns and scents marking hunting grounds that were already spoken for. His companion had a name, but while Malum was aware Vorox gave each other titles, he seldom needed to know any. Her wise counsel and proficient knowledge of the Agori dialect had allowed him to accomplish much in the past few months. 

The pair proceeded with caution, and openly. There was a real possibility that local Vorox might chase them off their land. However, Malum was perceptive enough to position himself in their place, considering how he himself might have looked upon an intruder lurking around the gates of Vulcanus. He knew that an aggressive or covert entrance would increase the chance of a hostile reception, so he instead made no effort to mask his approach. 

Sure enough, a pack of Vorox soon slunk their way from the sand, their helmets emerging from the ridges of the dune around the traveling pair. In his experience, this suggested they were curious enough to observe and confident enough to make their presence known. 

There were seven of them in number, five males and two females, presumably holed up in a nearby plateau and liberally surrounded by sand traps to warn them of any hulking crimson trespassers. Also present was a healthy smattering of Zesk. While smaller in stature, they were able to hunt and take live prey. Those that survived the full force of the desert were the strongest, the most intelligent and the best able to interact with others of their kind. 

The language of the Sand Tribe was not suited to complex conversations, for the subtle vibration of speech did not carry over the roaring elements. Months spent beneath the desert suns had afforded the exiled Glatorian a rudimentary understanding of the vernacular. He still made the occasional slip, however, which was why he had brought his most trusted follower to assist him.

_‘We bring you greetings from the West,’_ he began, meaning: We are few but we have many friends. _‘We have traveled far and seen many things.’_

The native Vorox remained suspicious. They were spoken for by their pack leader, who emerged from his vantage point and descended into the dune. At his invitation, Malum approached. 

_‘This is no place for your kind.’_

“I do not seek to hunt,” Malum countered in the language of the Agori. “I do not come to settle. The land beyond your land is of interest to me.”

_‘It is not to be traveled,’_ came the reply.

“That is what I have come to discover. Will you tell me what you know?”

Unrest erupted amongst the Vorox, only to be silenced by their leader. _‘Why should we?’_

“I will tell you things in return,” negotiated the exile, receiving a supportive nod from his translator, whose talents had so far gone unused. 

The Vorox sentries slowly stepped back from their positions and huddled closer together, keeping eyes on the stranger. For them, knowledge of the Wastelands was the one true currency. 

_‘Tell us,’_ challenged the pack leader. 

Painfully aware that he had precious little to trade, the former Glatorian made a spectacle of looking West, in the direction of Atero, as though he might be spotted. 

“My name is Malum,” he began neutrally. “I was at one time a champion of the Fire Tribe and victor of a thousand battles, my name chanted by Agori the world over until the Glatorian saw an opportunity to turn against me. Growing jealous of my strength in the arena, they conspired my exile and cast me from my home.”

Inclining their heads, the Vorox stayed silent. The value of a Glatorian captive was immensely evident to them, especially with the Bone Hunters constantly encroaching on their hunting grounds. 

“But the Glatorian let me live. For thousands of years I patrolled their golden citadel from the inside, fortifying the weaknesses and learning how their guards operate. I have been within the gates of Atero and offer you the means to reclaim it.”

There was now urgent chattering amongst the Vorox, fragments of which Malum could overhear. The warriors were too agitated to guard their tongues. 

Widely believed to have been a neutral city during the Core War, Atero at one time served as the ancestral home of the Sand Tribe, square on the equator and in close proximity to the volcanic fault line in Vulcanus. Due to the nomadic nature of the Sand Tribe warriors, however, the settlement had been annexed by the Agori in the years after the Shattering, once the Vorox and Zesk had regressed into their current state, leaving them little option but the empty embrace of the Wastelands. The loss of the settlement had been a sore point amongst generations of displaced Vorox tribes.

_‘You wish to trade this information?’_ asked the pack leader. 

“I know the structure of Atero’s defences,” Malum confirmed. “And I will give it to you… but I will trade like for like. You have knowledge of the Wastelands and the precautions you take to survive here. That is what I seek, so that I might make a home here.”

Flaring her nostrils, Malum’s aide bristled at him. Only then did the exile realize he had overplayed his hand, because the lead Vorox had gone very still - a particular hunting stillness that signaled raw aggression. 

_‘So you seek our lands after all…’_

“I seek a home,” Malum protested, but the language was a hard one through which to convey tone. Enough unintended body language had already leaked into it to confirm the pack leader’s suspicions. Abruptly, the Vorox reared up, drawing back his arms and stinger tail. It was a brute language unchanged since the Core War. He was poised to strike. 

“Back off,” Malum cautioned as his translator moved to meet the challenge. He himself was tense, but he was not showing submission nor unlimbering his weapons. 

_‘Go now, or we fight,’_ the Vorox demanded, his tribe brandishing their spears. 

There was a functional limit to how much knowledge members of the Sand Tribe were able to retain from before the virus struck. This clan of warriors possessed a modest handful of tricks carefully preserved over the centuries. Their individuals could learn and teach but their inbuilt knowledge was limited. 

While innovation was largely believed to have been lost on the stagnant world of Bara Magna, the Agori still possessed a great deal of information to draw upon. Different discoveries and tricks and tactics had been combined and experimented on by grand strategists like Certavus for centuries. Malum was no artisan, but he bore the fruits of others’ labors. 

The exile struck first with the raging fury of a caged Gravel Hawk, clashing against his adversary as though he represented the very system that had rejected him. They fought in the manner of beasts, snarling with unbridled aggression while slashing and scratching, making no effort to deflect blows or dodge. The Vorox was larger. In the past his height might have persuaded another smaller challenger to back down. But not Malum, who had never backed down from a fight in his life, no matter how clearly his opponent outclassed him. 

The Vorox stung just as the scarlet warrior readied himself. Taking the brunt of the stinger on his shoulder armor, he swung his right arm up and connected clean against the pack leader’s jaw. An astonishing _crack!_ emanated through the sand dune as his adversary’s head snapped back, screeching in pain. The crimson Glatorian took the opportunity to deal further damage, slashing with his Flame Claws and cutting deep into his adversary’s armor until at last he was brought to his knees.

The rest of the pack stared at him with interest. Two of their number splintered off towards their injured leader. Malum knew his opponent had no more stomach for the fight, but still anger spurred him to go through with what he had started. The tips of his blades had been coated with the venom of a Talon Snake he had trapped earlier that day, a tactic Vastus of the Jungle Tribe occasionally used to paralyze Bone Hunters on the outskirts of Tesara.

The remainder of the Vorox appeared to have adopted a submissive stance, thoroughly cowed. One of their number stepped forward, putting himself between Malum and the injured pack leader. 

_'What do you want?’_ he demanded, stinger tail poised to strike. 

“The land beyond yours is of interest to me for it holds many secrets,” answered the exile, lowering his weapons but making no move to indicate surrender. “You will take me to the Canyon Outpost where your tribe resides and in return, I will join your cause and learn the forgotten secrets of the Sand Tribe.” 

Trailing off, the exile switched over to the language of the Vorox for his final words.

_'For I am Malum... Warrior of the Wastelands.’_


	2. Chapter 2

Negotiations with the local Vorox had gone sufficiently well once Malum had established his superiority. As a show of good faith, the clan had offered the traveler several of their own to serve as guides in the lands to the north. Politely, the exile had declined, preferring to keep his own translator.

It seemed the rivalry between this particular tribe of Vorox on the outskirts of Creep Canyon and the regional Bone Hunters ran especially deep. For thousands of years, the two clans had feuded over territory, a series of conflicts that stretched back to the Shattering itself for reasons no living Vorox could discern. Having taken shelter from the intense desert heat in a number of caves during his time in exile, Malum had experienced frequent Bone Hunter attacks and lost a number of his supplies to their raiding parties, chief among which was the ceremonial sword he had carried in the arena. As such, he too nursed a deep hatred for the scavengers, a common ground that had ultimately won him the allegiance of a great many pack leaders.

Eventually, Malum had found himself entering the same cave as a small Vorox colony. Forced out by the pack leader, the Glatorian had trained for some time, learning their language and behaviors before returning and killing the leader, thereby assuming command over the tribe. Under his leadership, he had equipped the Vorox with weapons and Thornax Launchers and taught his followers the art of ambushing Bone Hunter patrols. After three months of painstaking negotiations and challenging regional leaders, an approximate forty Vorox and Zesk now marched to his banner, recognizing the exiled Glatorian as their champion as though he were a Great Being reincarnated.

Thinking back, Malum felt his present circumstances to be absurd and dreamlike. The Wastelands were no place for a Glatorian of his talents to reside. Perhaps he could someday return to Vulcanus, face the Agori, surrender his weapons, and wait for whatever punishment was dealt him? Many times over the past six months he considered the prospect, but whenever he thought of it, he found himself eternally waiting for the fatal moment he would hear Ackar and a crowd of warriors charging their Sand Stalkers in pursuit of him. All at once, a great hate welled up in him, and he went on with clenched teeth, planting his feet in the sand with steely determination.

The pair did not have to travel far to the north to see the camp that had been growing on the edge of the exile Glatorian’s awareness. A large canyon ran the whole length of the plateau, marking the end of Vorox territory, as though a great wound had been inflicted on the blistering surface of the planet.

As they drew closer, the Glatorian began to hear noises and spotted the bleached remains of Vorox, littering the desert as testament to the 100,000 year feud. Creeping towards the edge of the chasm, Malum and his aide peered down into the depths to observe what lay within, aware that sound traveled in both directions.

_Bone Hunters._

The reptilian warriors moved about like insects in a colony. Spartan in nature, the camp boasted all the essentials for survival, with a holding pen for Rock Steeds and what appeared to be a series of dwellings grafted into the walls of the canyon. What they were seeing was no work of nature, however. This was a colony on a grand scale, and the Bone Hunters tending to it were plainly visible. Everywhere Malum turned his eyes there were more of them, repairing armor and engaged in conversation. For a moment, he considered how few outsiders had actually been in his position and observed the fledgling culture of the rogues.

Complex structures were nestled along the walls of the canyon, no doubt fashioned from dwellings abandoned by the Sand Tribe Agori in the years of the Core War and since commandeered by their latest occupants. It was no small wonder why the Vorox of this region warred against the Bone Hunters with such eager disposition.

“What Raanu wouldn’t give to know the location of this place...” chuckled Malum aloud. His translator remained quiet, for her beady eyes had spotted movement below.

The exile watched until he saw three Bone Hunters looming on the hill against the skyline, making their way into the canyon, one mounted upon his steed, the other two sat at the reins of a captured transport caravan, drawn by a pair of Sand Stalkers. They were cantering and they rode close together, like a tireless pack of Wasteland Wolves. There was a rush of hoofbeats and the creatures came to a halt with braced legs. Their arrival was greeted with barbaric applause and guttural cheers before the scavengers descended upon the wagon. The glimmer of Exsidian ore could be seen exchanging hands as the Sand Stalkers were wrangled by their new masters.

Curiously, however, the metal was tossed to the sand. With no means to fashion it, the Bone Hunters had no need of the precious resource that the tribes of Bara Magna fought over. Malum figured they would gather it in surplus and ransom it back to the Agori in exchange for more of the wagon’s primary contents: Thornax Fruit.

Grown past the point of ripeness, the yield glowed a rich gold in the desert sunlight, indicating the fruit had matured to its final stage where the exterior grew hard and the roots jagged enough to pierce armor when thrown at a high velocity. While fresh Thornax could be boiled into a grueling broth, their main use was in the arena, where they had been employed as a formidable projectile.

Amidst the jeering of his new captors, an Agori in crimson armor was hoisted from the exterior of the caravan, his hands bound behind his back. Recognizing the lone caravan escort as a citizen of the Fire Tribe, Malum regarded the Agori with a stony expression, his keen mind considering the deeper issue at hand.

Vulcanus was roughly south of his current position. Historically, the victorious tribe of an arena match did not concern itself with transport of the spoils. With only one Prime Glatorian left in the Fire Tribe, a single Agori accompanying a trade caravan could only mean that Ackar had been bested in the arena, a feat previously held only by the likes of Tarix and Certavus.

But where was the caravan bound for? Iconox was perhaps the most obvious choice this far north, but Strakk lacked the metal to cross swords and win against Vulcanus’ finest. Moreover, a caravan departing Vulcanus would have been better traveling due west, skirting past the safety of Atero. Traveling due north could mean only that the Skrall of Roxtus had triumphed over his old mentor.

Returning his focus to the structure of the camp, the Glatorian made a mental note of the location in relation to Freak Canyon. Agori treasure-seekers often spoke of a Bone Hunter outpost around Skrall River, though its precise location continued to change like the landscape of the Wastelands owing to the nomadic nature of its occupants. Few Tribes had the resources to spend searching for such temporary footholds and instead were content to deal with the occasional raid. But if information about a current Bone Hunter stronghold was to reach the right ears...

“That Agori,” grunted Malum reluctantly. “I need him.”

The Vorox let out a noise that sounded unmistakably like a snort. There was no need to translate.

_‘Leave him,’_ she snarled. _‘They are enemies of the Vorox and traitors who cast you to the Great Barren. Loyalties to your old tribe are a weakness.’_

“That may be, but I need the information he carries,” snapped the Glatorian. “If I am to have my revenge, I must know what has transpired in Vulcanus.”

Weighing his words, the Vorox inclined her head towards him in an expression of reluctance and disgust.

_‘I cannot be seen to be aiding you,’_ she articulated through frantic grunts and gestures. _‘The alliance between the Bone Hunters and my people is tentative at best, but necessary. I cannot jeopardize it.’_

“You need no longer rely on the charity of sellswords and thieves, for there is a new warrior who will fight on your behalf,” assured the scarlet Glatorian, rising to his full height. “For I am Malum... Glatorian of the Sand Tribe.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Kyry came to, he could not tell how long he had been out cold. Hauled unwillingly back into the waking world, fragmented memories began returning to him, as though his brain was ticking off items on a checklist. He had lost time and, for a blissful moment, he had not thought to question where he was. The world came back to him in bits and pieces.

At first, he’d thought it was a dream of Bone Hunters and captivity. When at last he opened his eyes and saw the beady eyes of Vorox staring back at him, the Agori realized he had traded one nightmare for another.

As he jolted into full consciousness with the certainty that he was going to be devoured, Kyry lashed out in fear, flailing his arms in a frenzy. The hands that subdued him were none too gentle, wrestling him back to the ground with such force that the fight was knocked out of him. Only then did Kyry realize that he had been screaming. Lying prone, his helmet pressed into cool sand, the Agori could only stare at his surroundings, unable to work out where he was.

There were three Vorox in the chamber, which appeared to be a modest hut with sand flooring and musty fabrics draped across the walls and doorway. They wore battered and bleached armor stained a deep tan by the elements. They chittered and gnashed at him, but their language was lost on him.

“Bestill yourself, Agori,” snapped a figure in the shadows, a black form against the square of light spilling in from the doorway.

“Wh-Where am I?” asked Kyry, trying to phrase an intelligent response but managing only a weak mumble. “Where did the Vorox come from?”

The figure edged closer, his features silhouetted by the intense brightness behind him.

“They tend to your wounds at my command,” he explained shortly, which ranked among the least comforting responses Kyry had ever received. “You traveled by caravan from Vulcanus. Where was your escort?”

Kyry stared at the Glatorian, still having difficulty interpreting what he was seeing. Slowly, it started coming back to him; the caravan, his companion, the Bone Hunters...

“She didn’t make it,” he muttered, the words sounding distant as he thought of the felled Glatorian, still lying in the field of sand and corpses. “The ambush - they laid a trap in the canyon. I led us right into it...”

“And you alone survived, a captive of the Bone Hunters?”

The question seemed almost as cold as the answer was self-evident.

“They were planning to ransom me back to the Fire Tribe,” answered Kyry limply from his position on the ground.

The figure made no movement to indicate he had heard, continuing to observe the Agori with keen and unflinching interest. Shaking the fatigue from his weary bones, Kyry tried to pull himself into a sitting position only for waves of pain to shoot through his body.

“You hit your head,” explained the stranger, with something close to guarded empathy. Sharp and direct, the words itched like the bite of a Sand Flea. It took Kyry time to digest their meaning, for the edge of his alertness had suddenly grown dull in recognition.

“I remember you,” he murmured with a deep frown, sensing a familiar quality in the figure’s voice. “You’re Malum the Exile. You were once our ferocious Second Glatorian, trained under Ackar himself; a force of nature unleashed!”

As he spoke, the Glatorian’s eyes glazed over, making it impossible to discern his response. When he spoke again, however, his tone was tinged with bitterness.

“See how Vulcanus rewards her warriors,” he bristled. “They call me _Malum the Champion_ now, and the whole of Bara Magna is my arena.”

Something about his clipped tone gave Kyry pause. Only then did his present situation dawn upon him in its entirety.

“Am... Am I your prisoner?” he asked, his eyes betraying him as he glanced at the Vorox.

Malum leaned closer, an angry shadow passing over his sullen features.

“That depends on what information you can offer me, Kyry of the Fire Tribe,” he said with steel in his voice. “Out here, knowledge is the one commodity as precious as water.”

The faces of the Vorox changed in that moment, though their eyes remained on him. Their features were suddenly alive with interest, yet they made no hostile move. They were brutish and intimidating. Malum had not picked them for tenderness.

“The Sea of Liquid Sand encroaches further on the borders of Vulcanus,” reported the Agori, wise enough to sense the unspoken threat. “Or at least that’s what we think it is - the scouts we sent haven’t returned.”

The outlaw gazed back blankly, for the news was at least two weeks old to him and therefore as stale as fermented Thornax Stew.

“Perhaps you misunderstand my meaning,” he said with considerable dryness. “Why do you journey north with the concessions of an arena match?”

Kyry knotted his brow, momentarily flustered. Of the deadly figures who roamed the Wastelands in the tales of other guardsmen, Malum was the last and most grim. A thousand stories had been told about him. In the imagination of the young Agori, he had loomed like a giant, brooding savage.

“You want to know... the outcome of our arena matches?” he finally murmured with a certain amount of reserve that was unnatural to him. “Is that all?”

“The arena is where politics happen, Agori,” said the Glatorian in response, his steely gaze unflinching. “Matches determine trade and alliances between tribes; they settle disputes over land and supplies, staving off the alternative. Whatever happens in the arena of Vulcanus affects all of Bara Manga. So tell me, have the Skrall bested my old mentor, or has Strakk been eating his Thornax?”

From his position on the ground, Kyry paused to choose his answer. A low growl from one of the Vorox prompted him to be quicker with his words, however.

“You faced a Skrall in the arena once before,” recounted the Agori, his throat as dry as sandpaper. “As you know, they are a brutal and barbaric band of Rock Tribe warriors. They showed up shortly before your exile to settle in the ruins of Roxtus, displacing many of the Earth Agori villagers in the Black Spike Mountains. So far, their warriors are undefeated in the arena, for they are stronger, faster, and infinitely more cunning than Glatorian. Over the past few months, they have bested not only yourself, but also the likes of Strakk, Gresh, Kiina and, most recently... Ackar.”

The revelation brought with it a long and thoughtful pause. If the news sparked an emotion within Malum his expression did not show it.

“The expansionism of the Skrall endangers us all,” continued Kyry tentatively. “Since your exile, they have challenged all four tribes for any findings in the desert, no matter how tenuous their claim, reveling in chances to crush Glatorian in the arena. If their conquest continues unchallenged, Raanu predicts they will have won all of Bara Magna in a matter of years. It won’t be long before they seek to conquer the Wastelands too...”

At the mention of the Agori Chief’s name, the former Glatorian’s eyes narrowed and the Vorox at his side began to chitter in aggression.

“You could return to Vulcanus with me if you wanted,” murmured Kyry, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

Malum said nothing at first, his face inscrutable as he stared into the shadows and far away.

“The Fire Tribe owes you a great debt for your heroism against the Bone Hunters and you have proved yourself an honorable warrior,” continued the Agori, keen to press a point too far in the hopes that his words might spur the Glatorian to action. “I remember the days when you defended Vulcanus with honor and risked everything to secure supplies for us. You even trained guardsmen like myself, teaching us how to fight while helping us understand why. I’m sure you would be welcomed back now that three months have passed!”

Anger flashed across Malum’s features so suddenly that Kyry could only suppose it had been bubbling beneath the surface the entire time. The serrated tips of his Flame Claw swung at him, catching the Agori by the neck and hoisting him from the ground as he struggled and squirmed.

“I shall _never_ again fight in the service of the Fire Tribe,” growled Malum before releasing his grip on the Agori and gesturing to the three Vorox present in the tent. “I command the greatest warriors on Bara Magna, each trained to follow my orders precisely. Their loyalty is unwavering and they know how to act rather than react, no matter the situation. A life like theirs adds determination, a grit that cannot exist in your precious civilization. The Vorox are my people and these drifts and dunes you Agori call Wastelands are more home to me than Vulcanus ever was.”

Gazing at the Sand Tribe warriors, Kyry observed only three sets of razor-sharp mandibles and a ravenous hunger in their dull, reptilian eyes.

“The caravan and its Thornax contents are the property of the Sand Tribe now” continued Malum, approaching one of the creatures and placing an affectionate hand on its shoulder. “If the Fire Tribe wishes to challenge this claim, I will gladly deal Ackar the second defeat of his career.”

“And what of me?” asked Kyry, finally finding the courage to speak up but terrified of the answer.

“It appears your wounds have healed,” shrugged the exile silkily as he made his way back to the doorway and lifted the tarp covering the entrance. “You will be given a sword and a shield and you will make your way back to Vulcanus.”

Opening his mouth in protest, the exact meaning of the words slowly dawned on Kyry.

“I leave you at the mercy of the elements,” continued Malum. “The same position I once found myself in. Should you succumb to the heat, the Agori of Vulcanus will have more water to share. Should you survive... perhaps you too will find that the only comfort in this world is the charity of the uncivilized.”

Leaving the Agori to recover in one of the huts, Malum reconvened with his tribe and appraised them of the new information. Having reclaimed the camp single-handedly, he had earned both the attention and the respect of the local pack leader, offering the caravan full of Thornax to sweeten the deal. Before long, his aide had helped him to negotiate a more lasting partnership and the clan had begun to assimilate into his following.

Observing the Vorox hard at work removing the detritus of Bone Hunter occupation, Malum walked to the shade and gazed up at the structure embedded in the cliff face. The huts were perfectly aligned and structurally reinforced, possessing the likeness of shelled crustaceans clinging to the wall of the canyon. Far above, a solid rock overhand shrouded the entire settlement from the surface. Grand statues had once adorned the ledges high above the dwellings, all but one now reduced to rubble by the Bone Hunters or the forces of time. The looming figure of an ancient Skrall warrior stood tall between the six empty crevices; the Elemental Lord of Rock, no doubt.

A handful of Zesk sheltered there, picking over the supplies left by the Bone Hunters. Only one among them was moving with purpose, busying himself by digging at a pile of sand. After a long moment of foraging, the lone Zesk tried a scrap of metal from the ground, which Malum recognized instantly as the timeworn helmet of an Agori.

_‘Dig deeper,’_ he ordered in the broken language of the Vorox, forcing a weary smile. _‘Whatever you find is yours to keep.’_

As the Zesk scrambled for scraps among the sand, Malum sensed the approach of a messenger behind him. As he turned, it suddenly occurred to him how cool the air had become as the suns danced low in the sky.

_‘The Clan Elders have accepted your request,’_ reported the young Vorox, his stinger tail swishing through the air with eager anticipation. ''‘They will supply you with escorts on your journey. I pledge myself to your cause, for you are Malum, Champion of the Vorox.’''

The exile nodded, turning his attention to the trail that lay ahead. There could be no room for failure or indecision when the fate of the Sand Tribe lay in the balance.

“Then you will accompany me on my quest, but only if you are firm in your conviction,” cautioned the crimson warrior solemnly. “We will not return until we have found answers to questions that have spurned me since the Shattering: what became of the Elemental Lords? Where are the Great Beings? And what happened to the oceans of Aqua Magna?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kyry is left to the Wastelands and equipped with a rudimentary sword and shield to defend himself with. Not only does this echo Malum's own exile from the Fire Tribe, but it is also a reference to the sword and shield that Kyry canonically carried in Sparkytron's contest-winning design. These weapons went unmentioned in Raid on Vulcanus, Kyry's only canon appearance.


	4. Chapter 4

Rather than going directly through the Wastelands and into Bone Hunter territory where rogue sentries might raise an alarm, Malum angled north towards Skrall River. His Vorox warriors followed without question, but even they considered it a bold move. His party numbered seven in total, with a pair of Zesk to accompany them on their expedition across the desert. For some time, Malum matched the pace of his warriors, subtly resetting their path every time they started to veer off-course. 

The suns hadn’t risen yet, but their rays arced over the horizon and brought ginger light to the sky. Traditionally, Vorox traveled and hunted at night, only springing from their underground tunnels in the day if they sensed movement on the surface. Out of respect for their new Champion, however, they traveled the expanse by foot.

The warriors of the Sand Tribe knew little about the eastern regions of Bara Magna, only that black rocks rose near the Bone Hunter Fortress and that there was very little to scavenge there. If the land had been ripe or welcoming, perhaps the Skrall would have worked to extend their territory beyond, but there seemed to be a pall over the eastern stretches of the planet. The Wastelands didn’t end so much as the Vorox, Bone Hunters and Skrall independently came to the conclusion that the land wasn’t worth fighting for. 

The sand stretched in every direction, as far as the eye could see. It rose up in great dunes patterned in windy waves, and plummeted into deep valleys. The further they traveled from the Iron Canyon and the accompanying borderlands, the more agitated Malum became. Out here, there were no landmarks, no weeds, no clear goals, no places to hide. To him, the sheer enormity of the desert made him feel as though the ground might disappear beneath his feet and swallow him whole.

Cresting a particularly steep dune, Malum caught one of the Vorox staring to the east, a scrawny male who twitched more often than his fellow tribesmen. Following his line of sight with some interest, he spotted a distant outline against the endless sand. Shielding his eyes from the intensity of the Twins Suns, he caught sight of an orange figure atop an antiquated Baranus chariot, which skimmed across the sand. Pulled by the lizard-like form of a Spikit, the wagon was gliding at a speed far greater than the Vorox could hope to achieve on foot, fading into the swirling clouds of dust that marred the horizon.

Malum stopped walking to watch the figure fade into obscurity. Gesturing to the patch of sand the vehicle had been spotted and issuing a broken command in the tongue of the Vorox, he sent the Zesk scouts to investigate, with the party approaching in hot pursuit. By the time they arrived at the point the stranger had first been spotted, there remained only a set of tracks, which were now swiftly being obscured by the wind.

“What do you make of that?” asked Malum, turning to his aide for insight. 

_‘This is not our territory,’_ she replied simply, a hint of reprimand evident in her gestures. _‘We know nothing of this place or its inhabitants. An Agori trader, no doubt.’_

“Perhaps, though he’s a little far from Atero,” muttered the exile pensively, recalling similar chariots that he had plundered during the Core War. 

Ordinarily, Malum would have been more than happy to venture off on his own and give chase to the mysterious figure and his curious vehicle, but the Vorox under his command were still so unaccustomed to this new part of the world that he did not have the luxury of satisfying his curiosity. Scanning the depths of the horizon, Malum followed the tracks over a dune, trailing off to the west. He marked the spot in his mind, adding it to his growing mental map of the Wasteland’s topography for future reference.

“We carry on eastward,” he announced decisively with a curt nod ahead. “We find more allies. We find what lies beyond.”

For the rest of the day, Malum and his scouts saw nothing but open desert. While the Vorox were well-equipped for long journeys, their clawed feet evolved to increase traction in the sand, he possessed no such advantage. Up each dune the Vorox and Zesk scarpered while their Champion trudged slowly behind. More often than any of his companions, he found himself drawing water from his pouch and stopping to search for something, anything, that was not sand. It seemed that, no matter how much he drank, he was always thirsty.

As light began to fade from the sky and the air grew heavy and cool, the party set up camp in a dune no different from any other. When Malum sent Vorox to gather firewood, water, and food, he was met with ugly looks and hesitation before they obeyed. Something was in the air, it seemed.

The Vorox were content to bury themselves in the sand almost entirely, burrowing down into cooler depths with only the tips of their stinger tails protruding, leaving no trace of their presence to desert scavengers. The warriors intended to rest together, but the exile called upon the youngest male to take post on the slope and keep watch. As the lone tribesman scuttled away, Malum cast himself down heavily by the fire and ate his meat in silence, until his hunger was gone, receiving yet more defiant scowls.

Still struggling to sleep in such conditions, the exile chose instead to dig a large hole and retreat into it. When at last he had completed his labors, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but, though he came to the verge of oblivion, the voices in his head would not quieten for some time. Drained from the journey and unaccustomed to nights spent beneath the surface, the crimson warrior finally lapsed into deep slumber until he was woken for his own turn on watch.

Continuing their journey early the following morning, Malum was again met with disappointment, gazing out at the endless dunes with resentment in his heart. Dry heat burned his eyes but still he marched at the same pace as his followers, spurred on by the promise of the answers he would find in the east. Before long, he found himself falling into a familiar rhythm, mimicking the movements of his warriors. There would be punishment for anyone who slowed the entire pack down with their lack of energy, Champion or otherwise.

As midday gradually rolled closer and the Twin Suns loomed directly overhead, one of the scouts stopped at the top of a dune and held out his hand in the universal sign to approach with caution. Taking the warning with heed, Malum clenched his jaw.

“Hold steady,” he commanded, flexing his Flame Claws in anticipation. 

As commander of the pack, Malum led the way, flanked by the three strongest Vorox, Spears and Thornax Launchers close at hand. Beneath him, the sand was flat for some distance, unobscured by the dunes he had come to think of as permanent features of the Wastelands. In the middle of the incomprehensible flatness was a large black mound. From his vantage point and with the air full of whipping sand and dust, it was impossible to guess at what it might be, or even how large it was. 

The shape was black with sparks of reflected light, which suggested something about it was shifting or possibly metallic in composition. It was lumpy and seemed to be the size of his home back in Vulcanus. The sand around it was the same golden texture that had become Malum’s whole world, and there was nothing to mark a difference of topography. Just the slightly shifting, pulsing, dark silhouette out in the middle of the Wastelands. In a land of such nothingness, any idle thing seemed unusual.

 _‘We should trail around it,’_ noted his aide cautiously. _‘Whatever it is will only delay us from our goal.’_

Gazing in wonder, Malum’s mind began to make sense of what he was seeing, for he had never before witnessed anything living that was larger than a Rock Steed. He had heard tales of large predators that had roamed the ancient planes of the world and known them only by reputation of their fearsome jaws but had never seen the giant bodies they were said to be attached to. The corpses of Cave Shrikes and Skorpio had been uncovered by adventurous Agori, but truly, few could name or describe the mythical beasts whose bones had been fashioned into their weapons and armor. There were no creatures in the world bigger than the Sand Stalkers and Spikit used to pull Agori caravans. If the Vorox knew any more than he did, they certainly offered no hints.

“We approach,” he ordered, ignoring the scorn of his companion. “Flank it from both sides. Leave the Zesk here.”

Splintering into two groups, the Vorox crawled silently down the slope of the dune and into the valley, positioning their Zesk to keep watch from above. If they felt apprehension, their features did not betray them, though several sets of eyes darted around for signs of a Bone Hunter ambush from above. 

Drawing closer, Malum studied the pulsing shape with great intensity. Curiously, it did not seem to behave like any creature he knew. There was something uncomfortably alien about it, whether it was the constant shifting of its form or the unnaturally moist quality of its appearance, he could not decide. 

As the pack approached, the entity did nothing but shiver to itself, for no reason they could discern. Raising a hand in signal, Malum halted. Obeying, the Vorox stopped, awaiting instruction from their champion. They were anxious and twitchy, for it was rare that Vorox found themselves vulnerable in this manner. They chittered and hissed in hushed tones, resisting the survival instincts that told them to cut ties and leave the foolish Glatorian to let curiosity get the better of him. But Malum was nothing if not stubborn. He wanted answers and no force on Bara Magna would keep him from finding them. 

Without a word, he activated his shoulder-mounted Thornax Launcher, took aim and fired at the heaving ebony shape. 

The black scales that had been shifting in the sunlight exploded on impact, revealing a swarm of Scarabax Beetles, their faces stained with the rusty red texture of recent feeding. Screeching as they swarmed the valley, the nocturnal creatures furiously swept at the sand with their proboscises, their vicious mandibles churning for meat. 

“Fall back!” bellowed the exile, laying down a covering fire of Thornax to allow his followers a window with which to retreat.

But the order came too late. Stitching together in a composite mesh of their bodies, the cluster of beetles morphed into a swirling liquid mass that swiped at the scavengers. Before his very eyes, Malum watched as a pair of Vorox were swallowed up by the insects, screaming as they were sucked up by the voracious creatures. 

Pausing to assess the situation, Malum recalled his own experiences of Scarabax. Every desert had its insects but few were as voracious or intelligent as the Scarabax. He had seen specimens captured by Agori traders, even squashed a few under his heel whilst traveling between arena matches in his previous life. Never before had he seen them behave like this.

As the Vorox receded back, the swarm moved to give chase, revealing the raw carcass of an enormous desert creature, which had been almost entirely devoured by the beetles. At first, its structure appeared unlike any domestic creature Malum was familiar with, adorned with too many ridges and spines to fit the shape of a Rock Steed. As the swarm moved, however, he came to identify it as the emaciated remains of a Sun-Rock Dragon, the legendary desert predator from whose bones his very Flame Claws were crafted. There was little left of the fallen beast, just blankets of scales hanging off bleached ribs and tendons. 

As nearby Vorox scarpered for cover at the top of the dune, Malum rose to his full height and stepped forward to meet the challenge, flailing his arms high above his head, a technique that often intimidated lone Scarabax. But the swarm swept past the crimson warrior almost entirely, sending a chittering tendril of insect bodies to engulf a nearby warrior. Hearing the cries of the Vorox as her arm was swallowed up by the ebony whirlwind, it dawned on Malum all too late that the victim was none other than his aide, who had stepped forward to take the blow meant for him. Struggling for her freedom, the long-suffering Vorox yanked and tugged only for more Scarabax to crawl up her shoulder. 

Brandishing his Flame Claws, he took wild swipes at the Scarabax, drawing their attention away from his friend before she could be claimed by the sprawling beetles. In a fury of metal and muscle, the exile tore at the entity before him, cleaving and cutting until great fistfuls of broken beetles fell to the sand. 

“Throw the canteens!” roared Malum desperately, tearing the skein from his waist and hurling it into the churning cloud of talons and mandibles. 

Droplets of water arched into the air, soaking the entity’s turbulent midsection and causing it to buckle in on itself. The swarm lost its composition if only for a moment, loosening its grip on the captive Vorox long enough for her to pull what was left of her arm free. Following his lead, several of the Sand Tribe warriors reached for their own canteens, hurling them into the mess of insects and soaking them with what little they had left to spare. 

The effects were instantaneous as the Scarabax furiously tore into each other, their shared directive shifting entirely at the slightest trace of moisture. Consuming every drop in a frenzy of sparkling shards of exoskeleton, the beetles began gorging themselves on whatever droplets were within reach. Within seconds, the united biomass had been reduced to a churning deluge of insects guttling one another. 

Kneeling beside his injured translator, Malum latched the Vorox’s arm around his shoulder and hoisted her back to her feet. While the Scarabax continued to crumble in on themselves, the scavengers retreated to safety. Grimly, he stopped to look back at the scene unfurling at the bottom of the dune.

Already the half-digested carcasses of his fallen soldiers could be seen on the desert floor, a grim and unnecessary loss that he would rather have avoided. Their unceremonious endings weighed heavy on his heart, for both had only recently joined his following and had proved especially loyal. Both had shown him great kindness and deserved better.

Stealing one final glance at the broken entity of writhing Scarbax, Malum hoped only that he had managed to deal a blow from which the colony could never recover. Perhaps the sacrifice of his people today would bring them better fortune further along their journey. 

Trudging away with his injured companion limping beside him, Malum knew nothing of the effect he would come to have over the creatures. If nothing else, they would remember the fearsome claws and savagery of the Sand Tribe’s champion.

Someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malum and his pack of Vorox encounter a swamp of Scarabax Beetles and leave a notable impression, thus explaining why the Scarabax to take Malum's form in _BIONICLE: The Legend Reborn_ during the Battle of Roxtus.


	5. Chapter 5

_‘What’s the damage?’_ asked the former Glatorian, eying his compatriots once they had put enough distance between themselves and the Scarabax swarm.

The remaining Vorox chittered in response, crowding round to investigate the injuries of the female clinging to his side. Her entire right arm was in poor condition, with great chunks of armor and flesh eaten away. Worse still, ugly red bite marks ran from her mottled fingers to her elbow. 

_‘Scarabax stings are weak,’_ chirped one of the males, studying the wound intently. 

_‘She will live,’_ reported another. _‘It will heal in time.’_

“And if it doesn’t?” snapped Malum, lapsing back into the Agori dialect in a tone so cutting that it surprised even him. 

The Vorox who had spoken gave him a grim stare.

 _‘Then we cut the arm off. Below the elbow,’_ he answered, running his hand over the mottled flesh and marking the joint with a finger. 

“No,” challenged the Glatorian. “That would only make for a worse wound.”

 _‘You make it sound like we have a choice to be other than what we are,’_ bristled the injured translator from her position on the ground. _‘This is our way of life, crimson one. This is why we are strong.’_

Malum fell silent. The words cut deep coming from his aide. She was, after all, one of the last members of his original pack and had been a constant companion to him over the last three months. It was her wise counsel and willingness to teach the language of the Sand Tribe that had enabled him to survive so long in the company of Vorox. Of all the warriors under his command, only she was permitted to speak to him in such tones, for he knew it was best not to earn her fury. 

_‘You would be stronger with both hands,’_ he retorted sharply. _‘You must heal so you can continue your duties as my translator.’_

 _‘This is the way of the Vorox,’_ hissed another of the warriors. A quality in his voice made the fragmented statement feel inflexible and timeless. It was not something to be argued against. 

_‘Bandage her arm,’_ demanded Malum, kneeling to pat one of the nearby Zesk. _‘We carry on and hope this is the last we see of the Scarabax for the rest of our quest.’_

Following his lead, the Vorox moved to continue their journey, knowing without a word being spoken that there was only a small chance that their trail would end in anything short of a red mark in the dust.

Still nursing wounds from the encounter with the Scarabax, Malum spent the rest of the day among the Zesk, feeling compelled to make restitution for his previous error in judgment. Unwilling to repeat the blunder that had injured his aide and cost him two Vorox, he wasted no effort investigating any further curiosities of the desert. As the day wore on, Sand Fleas started to appear, until a swarm of insects surrounded the pack. The exile had no strength left to swat them.

Still some distance from Skrall River, the pack began to descend a particularly long dune, and the land flattened out. After stopping to reorientate himself, Malum led his followers east, passing tall posts and remnants of worn fences, each leaning sideways, stooped with age. Farther on, a peculiar skeleton of metal rose proudly from the drifts, looping and whirling like the spine of the giant carcasses of Rock Steeds. Remarking the bleached husk of a dehydrated Agori, the exile was reminded that his muscles weren’t the only part of his body hardened by the past several months: his heart had hardened as well.

Dusk soon swept across the valley and the pack hurried toward a series of bleached white structures poking up from the ground like shattered teeth. Although their walls seemed sound, there were no roofs to the buildings, and the sand filled them inside. 

_‘Agori homes,’_ observed one of the Vorox, flexing his stinger tail in mild apprehension.

 _‘We camp here tonight,’_ ordered the exile, casting anxious glances at the sand behind them. For some time now, he had sensed they were being observed.

At his command, the remaining Vorox and Zesk scurried towards a structure at the far side of the grouping, which sat higher than the rest. Although the building was clear the rooms had once been tall enough for Glatorian of their stature, the sand and debris had filled them so deep that even they had trouble burying themselves for the night. 

_‘I will take first watch,’_ grunted Malum. _‘We rest for the night, then we leave before sunrise.’_

The former Glatorian sat outside the building, his back to the other wall. He spent his watch on high alert, scanning the horizon for any new sensation. As the sky grew red, he allowed himself to slacken. The only sound was the high keening of the wind and the soft shuffling of the sand. Whatever answers he would find in the east, he could only hope they were worth the suffering of his people, worth losing warriors and risking his position.

Alone with his thoughts at last, he found his gaze drifting up into the night sky, for Bota Magna could be seen clearly tonight. Though it was a curious sight for many Agori stargazers, the emerald moon was an auspicious omen for Malum. Remembering a time when the celestial debris had comprised an entire continent of Spherus Magna, he felt the fury of the Vorox in his gut, for its tantalizing green surface represented the plight of the Sand Tribe. 

Sitting in a silent fury for several hours, Malum resigned himself once more to the simple truth that Bara Magna was a broken and stagnant world far beyond his capacity to fix. When his watch finally ended, the exile tore his gaze from the heavens and their abundance and instead moved to wake one of the other warriors, knowing he had only the sand for comfort.

For the duration of Kyry’s story, Ackar’s expression remained grave and featureless while Raanu paced furtively across the chamber, muttering and cursing to himself. The Fire Agori recounted the circumstances that had led to his capture, the death of his caravan escort and details of the Bone Hunter camp, but such topics were of little interest to the Chief of the Fire Tribe, whose thoughts seemed to linger solely on the stolen Thornax supply. 

“Forty cases of Thornax Fruit,” he repeated aloud in disbelief, resting his hand on the hearth of his chamber and staring into the fire. “Not only does Malum now possess enough ammunition to reignite the Core War, but now we must dig into our own supply to appease the Rock Tribe.” 

“Failure to deliver the spoils of the arena match to Roxtus will surely bring the full might of the Skrall to our door,” murmured Ackar in agreement, though his thoughts lingered on the fallen caravan escort. She had been a promising student, whom he had been preparing to become a fully-fledged Glatorian. 

“Do you at least know the location of their camp?” asked Metus, leaning forward in his chair, a hungry twinkle in his eye. 

Kyry shook his head and fiddled with the cup of broth he had been given, feeling the need to occupy his hands.

“I was captured somewhere to the west of Creep Canyon, in one of the central valleys,” he explained, as though issuing a report to his watchmaster. “The Vorox blindfolded me then left me in the open desert with only a sword and shield.”

“He’ll have moved on by now,” sighed Ackar, his brow knotted. “Besides, even with an army of Glatorian, we couldn’t take that camp back from the Sand Tribe or reclaim the Thornax. It’s nothing short of a miracle he managed to liberate it himself.”

Raanu and Metus exchanged glances, which confirmed their growing doubts that Ackar was continuing to soften in his age. The Glatorian chose to ignore them.

“So Malum has fully embraced the Wastelands?” mused Raanu, changing the subject briskly. “Keeping company with Vorox and raiding Agori caravans... I had hoped it would not come to this, that perhaps the elements would have granted him a merciful demise by now. But he has become a fugitive element of our own making.” 

“I did warn you banishing him would leave loose ends,” mused the Ice Agori, reclining back into his chair. “It's never sat well with me, knowing a Glatorian of his temperament is out there in the world.” 

“Exile is the punishment for dishonoring the Glatorian Creed,” snapped Ackar in a tone so frosty that it should have silenced anyone on the receiving end. “That has been our way for thousands of years. We do not execute our own.”

“You just let dehydration do that for you,” countered Metus sharply, gesturing a hand towards the window. “Until the social system ejects one Glatorian too stubborn and cunning to roll over and die, that is.” 

Kyry huddled deeper into his blanket and took a long sip of his broth. He had his own opinions on Metus, but he wasn’t about to challenge the second most powerful Agori in Vulcanus. His words were too pretty. Ackar did not respond.

“Keeping our hands clean comes at tremendous cost,” murmured Raanu in tentative agreement. “Malum is out there now, against all odds, armed with our Thornax and amassing support in the Sand Tribe. Even in exile he taunts me.”

“This is a position of your making,” added Metus, his eyes lingering on Ackar a moment too long. “Do you think the other tribes would be so forgiving if his Vorox claimed a caravan from Tajun instead? What if this were to become a repeat occurrence?” 

“Or worse,” lamented Raanu from his position at the hearth, “what’s to stop him trading his knowledge of Vulcanus’ defenses to our enemies? He certainly owes us no further allegiance, and with the Rock Tribe so hostile of late...” 

“I know Malum,” invoked Ackar, cutting the Agori off before he could finish voicing his anxieties. “He would never sell us out. Raid our caravans for supplies, perhaps, but there seems to be no shortage of Thornax these days. He took only what he knew we could spare.”

“I knew him too,” murmured the Fire Tribe Chief ruefully. “Or at least I believed I did. He fought faithfully under our banner and won us valuable supplies in the arena, but that aggression inside him never cooled, and now it points our way.”

Ackar shook his head.

“And yet, Kyry sits among us, a living testament to the contrary: that there is still mercy in Malum’s heart.”

Both Raanu and Metus turned to look at the sentry as though they had forgotten he was present. An uncomfortable silence came coupled with the revelation.

“No exile has ever survived alone in the Wastelands,” said Raanu, more pondering his thoughts aloud than addressing the chamber. “Malum was a powerful ally for a time but, under his rule, the Sand Tribe grows overconfident. As Kyry has proven, he is an indiscriminate menace to villages beyond our own.”

Ackar’s features grew gaunt. It seemed Raanu had made up his mind. 

“I must decree, therefore, that Malum the Exile is to be branded an enemy of Vulcanus we can no longer afford to tolerate. His crimes cannot go unpunished and we must make an example of him. I trust, Ackar, that it is within your skills to eliminate this new threat as our Prime Glatorian?”

Ackar sagged deeper into his chair, the weight of his grim duty dawning on him. 

“For Victory. For Glory... For Vulcanus.”


	6. Chapter 6

The pack set off before the Twin Suns had truly breached the sky. Nocturnal hunters by nature, the Vorox grumbled to themselves that they should have been walking at night all along, when the air was cool and clear, rather than saving their work for the heat of the day. They did not voice their qualms within earshot of their champion, however. 

As they began to leave the ruins, Malum kept to the center of the pack, his eyes trained on his immediate surroundings. Though his body had adjusted somewhat to the heat and harsh conditions, his mind continued to race with paranoia. Again, he felt painfully conspicuous out in the open desert. While the Vorox and Zesk had the natural advantage of camouflage, his crimson armor made him far too visible. In such an empty, desolate place, there was nowhere to hide. 

Abruptly, one the Vorox at the rear halted the march with a rapid chittering of his mandibles, his gaze locked on the north. Intrigued, Malum watched through the morning light until he too spotted six loosely-packed silhouettes of a Skrall patrol against the skyline, heading for the ruins they had just emerged from. The figures cantered in the distance and eventually drew close enough to be observed, like a tireless pack of Wasteland Wolves on the prowl. They had ridden their Sand Stalkers mercilessly through the night. Even over the swirling of the morning sand, he could hear the heavy pounding of their exhausted steeds.

 _‘We attack,’_ ordered the exile, his vocal cords matching the dialect closely. _Leave no Skrall standing.’_

Eagerly, the Vorox clutched their spears tighter and started scurrying back towards the ruins. They seemed to glide across the sand at a pace Malum could not hope to match. As he charged after his warriors, he saw the attack unfolding. 

The Skrall were close now, their pebbled armor shifting in the direction of the attackers. The closest Vorox sidestepped the feet of a Rock Steed and swiped her stinger tail at the folds of the creature’s neck. The creature dodged sideways, anticipating the attack and opening its mouth to reveal rows of serrated teeth. Ducking forwards, the Vorox jabbed her spear deep into the underbelly, making her target screech. The Skrall mount fell with his steed with a startled cry, right into the clutches of more Vorox. The remaining five riders swerved to avoid him, with one of their number breaking off in retreat.

Malum let out a furious roar from deep within his chest, drawing from a rage that still spurned from the Core War. Mingled in an ecstasy of emotion, there was fear, hate, grief, and joy in that scream, but it froze his very insides to hear it, for blind rage was driving him now. He had made a name for himself brawling in Vulcanus arena, slashing and swiping at opponents until he had earned his title. Frustration fueled him, giving his muscles strength and hardening his resolve. 

Unlimbering his Flame Claws, the former Glatorian thundered into battle, vaulting up over the edge of the dune. Before he had even reached the ground, Malum fired a Thornax from his shoulder-mounted launcher, spooking the retreating Rock Steed and dislodging the rider. 

Weary from their long travel and caught off-guard by the attackers, the remaining Skrall were slow to arms. When they finally dropped to the ground, Malum had caught up with his warriors and was distinguishable from them only in the color of his armor. 

Twisting and swirling with the force of a whirlwind, the champion of the Vorox slashed at the closest Skrall with his full might, his grip tightening around the edge of a Tribal Design Blade. Before long, Malum’s Flame Claws met the resistance of a Saw Shield and the exasperated cries began to subside. Orders were barked between the patrol as some semblance of a strategy was formed, leaving an unfortunate few to contend with the Vorox while their leader began lassoing at the attackers with nets and chains. Feeling metal loop around his left arm, the exile cursed and swung with the fury of a caged Spikit until he had regained his freedom. Yanking on the chain with his full might, the exile tore the warrior from the back of his Rock Steed, leaving him to sprawl in the sand. 

Malum of the Sand Tribe would not be shackled. 

“Give it up, Glatorian,” challenged one of the Skrall, wrestling for leverage. “You cannot hope to succeed. We fight. We win. We take. We--” 

“--Talk too much.”

Tearing the Saw Shield clean from his adversary’s grasp, Malum plunged his Flame Claws deep into the midsection of the Skrall, dealing his first lethal blow in the skirmish. The warrior’s eyes widened, his face racked with pain and fear, making a sound halfway between a shout and a blubber as he clutched his chest and raised his Tribal Design Blade in defense. 

“But... how?” he gasped in confusion, falling to one knee in the blinding white alkaline dust and clutching his waist as blood trickled into the sand. “You Glatorian... you do not fight to kill...”

Malum watched without a word as the Skrall unfurled and lay limp with a terminal stillness. Raising his head and turning once more to the broader battlefield, he saw that the Vorox had utterly destroyed the patrol, with four of the Rock Steeds now scarpering for cover. The skirmish had been quick but brutal. His tribesmen had taken no damage, and it was deemed a great victory. Nodding to himself, the exile turned to address his aide, who approached him cautiously for instruction. 

_‘Collect their supplies,’_ he ordered, admiring the fresh, scarlet coating of his Flame Claws. _‘Strip the Rock Steeds for meat. Gather their waterskins and Thornax.’_

Still nursing her injured arm, the aide growled in acknowledgement. The wound remained swollen, with jagged, purple lines running the length of her arm where she had been bitten. Sensing his interest, she swiftly covered the arm and gestured broadly to the farthest side of the battlefield. 

_‘They traveled with an Agori,’_ she chittered, gnashing her teeth with something close to disgust, stinger tail swishing in frantic apprehension. 

Casting a glance at the second Agori prisoner he had taken in three days, Malum’s insides turned at the sight of the Rock Tribe villager. Scores of names had been mentioned to him by chance acquaintances of the road and he recognized the villager as Atakus, an assistant and liaison between Roxtus and the other settlements of Bara Magna. Showing leniency towards Kyry and allowing him the chance to return to Vulcanus had cost him loyalty in the eyes of his followers. With the expedition already highlighting how poorly-equipped he was for life in the open Wastelands, he could afford to show no further mercy.

 _‘What use is he?’_ he grunted in response, remarking how closely the captured Agori resembled his Bone Hunter kinsmen. 

_‘He was carrying these,’_ answered another of the Vorox, brandishing a handsome pair of ebony shortswords. As Malum drew closer to investigate the tools, he remarked that the blades bore arcane symbols rooted in Rock Tribe culture and Great Being technology. They were a curious find to say the least.

Looming over his quarry, the exile regarded his prisoner with healthy suspicion, a habit that had become natural to him half a lifetime ago. Atakus was heavily muscled for an Agori, with a thick neck, big arms and small, hollow eyes.

“I know who you are,” grunted the captive, his voice deep and the words half swallowed by a heavy chest. “You are Malum of the Fire Tribe. Even in Roxtus we have heard rumblings of Vulcanus’ exile living off scraps among the Vorox. I wonder, then, if there is value on your head?” 

Picking up on the Agori’s tone, the Vorox began to snarl an unspoken warning of aggression. Allowing the jab to land, Malum instead motioned for his warriors to back off. 

“Better fighters have tried to claim that bounty,” he taunted with a sly grin on his features, motioning towards the broken bodies of the Skrall around him. “Now tell me, for what purpose do you encroach upon my domain?”

“Your domain?” Atakus repeated silkily. “I cannot tell where the land the Skrall do not see fit to conquer ends and your borders begin.”

Another bold slight, which the exile chose again to ignore. His grin only grew wider, his interest piqued. There was a shrewd and almost imperceptible quality about this Agori. His motives were anything but one-dimensional. 

“We’re past that stage now, Agori,” he said with a dangerous smile, his eyes drawn to the dilapidated structures and the distant horizon, beyond which lay the Dark Falls. “Out here among the dunes, your sharp tongue won’t win you water, and you’re at least a day’s ride away from Roxtus. Now might be the time to appeal to my more generous nature and tell me what business the Skrall have this far east.”

Atakus smiled, but there was no warmth in his expression. His eyes met Malum’s as a challenge. 

“I come seeking territory to claim for the glorious Skrall Empire, in the name of the Mighty Tuma,” he proclaimed simply, gesturing to the Saw Blade embedded in the sand. “If you wish to dispute our discovery then I invite you to challenge Stronius in Roxtus Arena.”

The exile’s smile grew hungry as he turned to address the Vorox, who had now finished ransacking the Rock Steed harnesses. One of the warriors approached him - the female who had dealt the first blow - and handed over a yellowed scroll, undoubtedly a map of the region. Unraveling the timeworn paper, Malum studied the topography of the valley he now found himself in.

“You travel in search of trinkets left behind by the Great Beings,” he snorted, noting the markings delineating various landmarks unseen since the Shattering. “I hope you brought a spade.”

Though his expression remained the same, Atakus’ eyes narrowed in frustration. He had been rumbled. 

“So where do we go from here?” he finally asked, eyeing the Vorox with a dispassionate glance.

“That depends entirely on what you have to offer,” answered Malum, who was still weighing up exactly what information he wished to extract against the relative bargaining power of what he was prepared to offer the Agori in return. “You know of these ruins and others like them.”

As if to reiterate the urgency of his circumstance, the Vorox began to growl impatiently, moving closer to encircle the prisoner. Slowly, the smile returned to the Agori’s face.

“Take a domestic Sand Fox into the wilderness and he learns to live like a Wasteland Wolf quickly enough,” he murmured fondly with a slow nod. “I am little more than a servant of the Skrall. I act as courier and guide to the warrior classes, seeking out terrain and resources that may be of interest to the Skrall Empire. It just so happens that the remnants left behind by our forebears are the only prizes to be won in this southern arena.”

“It strikes me you know a great deal more than you let on about the Great Beings, Atakus of the Rock Tribe,” Malum said in careful response, searching between the words for weakness. “But I wonder which set of secrets you are more willing to part with in exchange for your life?”

The Agori remained silent, but this time the daring smile was absent from his features. In the late morning glimmer of the Twin Suns, his expression appeared pallid and his beady eyes piercing. The threat hung in the air.

“It is true, I travel across Bara Magna in search of the Great Beings,” he finally conceded, a quiet resentment now tangible in his voice as well as a slither of delight at the prospect. “Imagine the countless weapons, machines, philosophies, and technologies that Agori and Skrall alike have invented only to be relegated to obscurity because some treasure-seeker unearthed the older, superior method of achieving the same end. Who knows what heights we might have been attained had we not been so eager to recreate the follies of our ancestors?”

“And what is it that you hope to find at the end of this trail?” murmured Malum in an attitude of pensive contemplation over his own goals. 

“I come in search of the Citadel of the Great Beings, which I believe to be beyond the confines of Creep Canyon,” answered Atakus, gesturing south with a vague flick of his wrist. “I believe that solutions to the problems plaguing our world lie in the wreckage of their civilization. If they still exist to be found, then they will reside in their Citadel...”

If Malum was moved by the Rock Agori’s words his expression did not betray any hint of fondness. While he harbored no love for the Great Beings in his heart, he knew of no other tribe that had returned from beyond the Great Barren with news of the outside world. Glancing over the points of the map once again, he now saw a series of detailed contours and structures printed in the alien alphabet used by the legendary scientists. Satisfied with the information, he raised a hand and signaled his followers to relent. 

_‘Leave him to the Wastelands,’_ he ordered in the tongue of the Vorox, before rolling the map up and turning to address Atakus. “Keep your weapons and get out of my sight. If you are fortunate, you will make a fine meal for a Sand Bat. If you are not... then perhaps you will discover firsthand just how forgiving this Mighty Tuma is in matters of lost Skrall and failure.”

Before the Agori could give voice to a retort, the exile turned to depart, plucking up the nearest Saw Shield as a trophy admiring the intricate pattern. Leaving Atakus amongst the bodies of his comrades, the pack followed after their champion - onward to their destiny.


	7. Chapter 7

To Perditus, there seemed no pleasure or safety in all of Bara Magna except in the speed of the Thornatus V9 and the whir of air rushing against his helmet. Always eager to patrol the dunes surrounding Iron Canyon, he had come to appreciate the company of his own thoughts. Driving with passengers was an unwelcome experience to him, however, for the silence of absent conversation was louder than the roar of the Dune Chariot’s engine. 

Ackar continued to stare from his perch above the Thornatus’ roll cage, back at the dunes they had left behind. He seemed sickly; like a plant that had been moved into the wrong soil, as though he were missing something vital. Perditus had noted the difference as soon as they had left Vulcanus. The Prime Glatorian’s gestures weren’t as extravagant. His voice wasn’t as deep. Even his eyes weren’t as bright as they should have been. 

After a long beat, Perditus chose to speak up.

“I’m surprised you’re looking behind instead of forward,” he ventured.

Ackar was a long time answering. Lowering his gaze, the wise Glatorian pulled a sad smile.

“In my experience, he said, “it’s the thing that sneaks up behind you that’s the real threat, not the one in front of you.” 

Perditus nodded, a study in silence. Ackar was a pleasant enough companion, happy to talk when prompted and comfortable in silence when not. 

The pair had a tenuous relationship at the best of times, with vastly different life experiences and expertise. For the most part, Perditus kept to himself, steering the Thornatus V9. Life in Vulcanus had prepared him for his journeys across the Wastelands. Very little occurred, but he was always alert, anticipating sudden changes in the terrain far quicker than most. 

The drive soon became endless for Ackar, who eventually turned his attention elsewhere, remarking scraps of armor that littered the sand as they whipped past, dazzling and bright enough to leave red spots dancing across his vision. 

“It’s a wonder there’s still metal out here to salvage,” he remarked, raising a hand to shield his face from the glare. 

“It’s a big desert,” grunted Perditus, nothing about his clipped tone inviting further response. 

The two Glatorian had been driving for several hours, spotting nothing of particular interest amidst the canyons and gorges beyond rippled dunes and rock formations weathered smooth by the sand. Everything wavered in the haze with the Twin Suns at their highest. 

“You know, Raanu’s offer still stands,” mused Ackar, glancing down from his perch at the pilot. “Vulcanus could really use a Second in the arena.”

Just six months ago, Vulcanus had been poised as the foremost settlement on Bara Magna, with three well-trained Glatorian and a proud legacy of victory in the arena. However, an unfortunate chain of events beginning with Malum’s exile for poor arena etiquette had damaged the Fire Tribe’s standing immeasurably. Worse still, Perditus remained entirely unwilling to participate in arena battles outside of vehicular combat, leaving Raanu no choice but to approach the other tribes for assistance, commissioning Metus of Iconox to recruit new talent. With no other Glatorian in Vulcanus experienced enough to fill Malum's vacancy as the tribe’s Secondary Glatorian, all arena matches had suddenly been deferred to Ackar.

“I left the arena for a reason,” snapped Perditus with unexpected frost in his tone. “My talents were never with a sword as yours were. Besides, I don’t much like my chances going up against reigning Arena Champions like Vastus and Tarix.” 

“Neither do I if I’m being entirely honest,” chuckled Ackar, reflecting on Tarix’s recent victory in the Annual Tournament. “But I was rather hoping you’d reconsidered in light of... well, I won’t be around forever.”

The Glatorian trailed off and hung his head. 

Over the course of the past six months, a dangerous new breed of combatant had entered the arenas of Bara Magna: the Skrall. Eager to carve out a piece of Bara Magna for themselves, the Rock Tribe had contested every major Wasteland find since they had settled in Roxtus. So far, the Skrall had captured the Fire Geysers north of Vulcanus, as well as the valuable oases and farming land discovered near Tesara and Iconox. The Rock Tribe warriors were yet to be beaten, outclassing the likes of Gresh, Kiina, Strakk and now even Ackar himself. To many among the Fire Tribe, this was a sign that their Prime Glatorian had passed his peak. 

Perditus rolled his eyes. 

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered begrudgingly, “lest we end up with no Glatorian at all…”

Following the direction of Atakus’ map as he led the pack north between Skrall River and Creep Canyon, Malum eventually noticed a difference in the quality of terrain underfoot. There was no exact place where the sand ended and the baked earth began, but the gradient of the desertscape grew steeper, until there could be no doubt that they were leaving the Great Barren behind; at last venturing into land unfamiliar to even the eldest Vorox among the party. 

_‘We need to go that way,’_ observed the aide, pointing the tip of her stinger tail in the direction of a gorge between two large mountain ranges.

“Which direction is that?” countered Malum. 

_‘The right one._

The warrior considered the words then yielded the point, though he recalled the Ambush of Iron Canyon all too well. Though he was leader of the pack, he would spend the rest of his days deferring to the superior judgment of his followers.

In the early afternoon, the leading scouts became aware of another large speck on the horizon. Malum couldn’t tell what it was, or even if it was natural in origin, figuring the object to be a fallen tree. The exile’s weary eyes passed over the outlying curiosity without immediate interest. His time in the Wastelands had taught him to recognize a mirage from afar. Most likely, it was a ridge of dirt or rocks. 

As they journeyed further, however, Malum wondered if perhaps this area of the eastern Wastelands had been naturally lower, a region where true valleys and craters had once held water and plants. At first there was no sign of any such features, but as they went on, strange shapes and shadows began to appear. Sensing that the pack had finally reached the furthest feature marked of the map, he stared at the peaks in hushed malevolence. The walls of the canyon were tapered and obscured to him. 

Before long a change came to be perceived in the behavior of the remaining Zesk, who grew reluctant to advance further as they skirted against the furthest extent of the Wastelands. Met with a low growl from deep within Malum’s throat, the scavengers fell back in line with some apprehension. Though they had once enjoyed the freedom known to all self-governing Agori, the centuries had left the Zesk all too accustomed to letting their leader do the thinking for them to challenge the point. 

Ascending the earthen slope, broken cliffs and granite boulders came into view, jumping up on either side of the trail and shimmering in the daylight. Lofty crags rolled away on each side, forming the familiar sharp, ragged outlines of a canyon rising up to meet the afternoon sky. 

Further changes in the pack’s behavior could now be observed in the Vorox, who had begun to twitch and bristle, as though they had picked up on a sensation he had not. When he could tolerate the writhing of his followers no longer, Malum planted his feet in the ground and spoke up.

“What’s the problem?” he asked openly, noticing that he had at last outpaced even the most eager of his scouts. “Don’t tell me the mighty Vorox are scared to leave the desert behind?”

Before anyone could so much as chirp in response to Malum’s challenge, however, the ground beneath his feet began to tremor. Small pebbles and shale cascaded down the slope before the sand itself erupted into a giant fist, snatching the exile up in a gust of debris. Snared by the churning sediment, Malum was hoisted into the air several feet off the ground by the construct, the world before him reduced to a beige blur, as though his head had been submerged beneath an ocean of clay. 

“What manner of Sand Flea scurries across my surface?” demanded the swirling tempest in the language of the Agori, its voice barely recognizable as female.

Struggling for his life, the exile swung his Flame Claws at the constraints, the sheer mass feeling as though he were fighting beneath the liquid depths of an oasis. Calling out in confusion, Malum watched as his followers starred in awe at the spectacle. One by one, the Vorox threw themselves to the ground in worship.

“I am Malum!” yelled the crimson warrior, waving his weapons to steady himself, “Scourge of Vulcanus. Warrior of the Wastelands. Victor of a thousand battles. Above all other titles though, I am Champion of the Vorox! Now who in the name of the Great Beings are you?”

A terrene mass emerged from the swirling ground, allowing Malum a glimpse of the stranger’s true shape. At first, he thought the figure to be a piece of claywork vaguely sculpted in Glatorian form, but then a set of alien eyes blinked open. Her helmet was adorned with thorned extrusions and her armor possessed the same organic sheen as the hide of a Scarabax Beetle. Her expression was impossible to determine for the apparatus of serrated mandibles at the bottom of her helmet, which was the source of the buzzing, clacking voice that spoke.

“At one time I was Empress of Atero and Conqueror of the Great Barren,” she nattered in response, surveying the assembled Vorox and Zesk before her. “Now I am little more than the guardian of the Eastern Deadlands.”

Recalling painful memories of the Core War, it slowly dawned on the exile that he had unknowingly wandered into the clutches of the reclusive Elemental Lord of Sand. Revered across Spherus Magna for her tempestuous rage and ever-changeable nature, she had commanded the vast legions of the Vorox Empire that had decimated many battalions that Malum had himself served in. In spite of her military exploits, however, the absence of the Elemental Lords had left a sour taste in the mouth of a great many Glatorian over the centuries. Digging deep, the crimson warrior flexed his muscles against the clay tendrils, freeing his arms and gesturing to the infinite sea of desert. 

“You mean there are lands deader than this?” he challenged.

The Elemental Lord buzzed a laugh and unfurled her thick fingers, severing her command over the construct and leaving Malum to plummet back to the ground, the shingle that had been his prison moments before now cushioning his fall. 

“The signs have been scoured away by wind and buried in time,” she murmured, admiring the landscape of the Wastelands as though she could see their furthest edge. “It has been many centuries since children of the tribes have dared approach these borders. What is it that you hope to find, Malum of the Wastelands?”

“I seek answers,” said the exile simply, dusting the sand from his armor and returning to his feet. “I understand that this area is dangerous, but I have no choice but to continue in pursuit of my goal - I want to know the secrets of Bara Magna. I want to understand this broken world and my place in it. I want to know where civilization began and what lies at the end of this world. Do you have any wisdom to impart?”

“You mistake me to be of a charitable nature,” growled the Elemental Lord, fixing the exile with a glare. “If others should be foolish enough to venture this way, then I shall tell them only that horror awaits beyond this canyon, the same thing that you now know, for all the good it did. Wisdom is wasted on your kind. Besides, you are not known to me... _Glatorian,_ and I have no trust for traitors and renegades. If you truly fancy yourself equal to my Vorox, then you will kneel before your empress.”

Behind him, the pack continued to watch from the ground, even his loyal aide humbled in allegiance to the Elemental Lord. He wondered, perhaps, how the Vorox would regard a Champion so thoroughly cowed. He had seen pack leaders banished from tribes for inadequacy and he knew his followers to be some of the most brutally efficient predators on Bara Magna. He could afford to show no weakness in front of them, even in the face of a swirling desert storm incarnated. 

“The Vorox would never follow a leader who served another,” he said with steely defiance. “They respect me for my strength and follow me for my conviction. I will not kneel - not before you, not for Raanu, not for anyone.” 

As though a rare cloud had passed overhead, the gaze of the Elemental Lord grew dark. Anger did not permeate her features, however, which made her countenance all the more dangerous.

“You are a fool to think leadership is anything _but_ service,” rebuked the Elemental Lord in short response, her great head wagging in something close to disappointment. “The Vorox have made you strong but the heart beneath all that armor is wrong if you do not recognize this.”

Malum felt his jaw tighten as control began to slip through his fingertips, for losing his temper now would be to lose his standing entirely. Instead he mulled the words over and judged the wisdom behind them. 

On many occasions he had scorned Raanu for his indecision and excessive arrogance on such matters. While many Agori had enjoyed the comforts of complacent stability, it was no secret that the tribes had become stagnant and unwilling to change, and in no place was this more evident than the council chambers of Vulcanus. It seemed to him no other Glatorian could embrace Bara Magna in its purest reality. 

“A leader is only as strong as the faith of his followers,” he finally conceded after much thought. “I seek to do right by those who follow me - to honor the noble Vorox and Zesk under my command. To do this, I must be different from past leaders. They named me Champion so that I might lead them to salvation and uncover the answers they cannot themselves.”

Though a righteous rage spurred every muscle within his body, Malum allowed himself to slacken. Submitting to the will of his pack, he at last fell to one knee and bowed his head, embracing the sand.

 _’I swear my fealty to you, wise Elemental Lord,’_ he chittered in the tongue of the Sand Tribe so that his followers might hear, the words feeling natural. _‘I pledge to honor and defend your tribesmen, wherever they reside. So surely as there is a blade in my hand and righteousness in my cause, there shall be sand in my soul.’_

Satisfaction did not become the expression of the Elemental Lord, but her gaze grew warmer. Reaching forward, she placed the palm of her hand on Malum’s shoulder. Her manner was coarse but the touch felt delicate and smooth, as though she had conjured the finest grains of sand in all of Bara Magna for the occasion. 

A wave of invisible energy seemed to pulse through the exile’s breast. When it succumbed, he felt invigorated. Rising with the blessing of the Vorox deity, the sands of the Wastelands suddenly felt more a home to him than the hovel of salvaged metal he had once called home ever could have. 

“I have watched my Vorox from the fringes of this world since the time of the Shattering,” she lamented, retracting her hand and gesturing for the pack to rise. “I have observed Agori drive Zesk from their villages as though they were vermin. They huddle around fires in the desert at the dead of night, reaching for the glow of the flames for comfort and heat, fearing the howls of Wasteland Wolves and the rumbling of their bellies. Once every thousand years, however, this world spits out a tribesman who grows to resent the fire and ventures off into the night to find his own way, envious of the wolves and eager to satisfy his hunger. I believe that you are one such tribesman, Malum, though the path you have taken is not measured in distance traveled.” 

“And still there is further to go,” said the Champion with a cursory glance at his aide. “If I am to truly be worthy of leading the Vorox, then I must complete my quest and discover the lost secrets of Spherus Magna. I must learn what has transpired over the centuries so that I may avoid their mistakes and restore my people to their former glory. I must ask a question that perhaps only you know the answer to: what has become of the Great Beings?” 

The Elemental Lord tilted her head back and drew breath only to pause. The roar of an engine could be heard, flung in echoes from the ridges of the plateau. Inclining his head in the direction, Malum froze at the sight of the Thornatus V9 roaring towards him, its side-wheels extending out at the instruction of the pilot. Rows of wickedly-sharp blades glinting in the light of the desert suns as though fate itself were rushing up to meet him.

It appeared Ackar had finally caught up with his trail...


	8. Chapter 8

_‘Defend yourselves!’_ bellowed Malum, turning to the pack.

But the command was lost in a volley of bolts fired from the Thornatus’ Force Blasters. The earth ruptured with debris and chunks of stone ricocheting in all directions as the Vorox struggled to mobilize, many of the warriors kneeling to return fire at the approaching vehicle. Scrambling forward, Malum hurled himself at a nearby Zesk, wrapping his arms around the startled creature and taking the brunt of the primitive artillery. The impact singed his armor, leaving a dark residue across his shoulder. 

Narrowing her beady eyes, the Elemental Lord shifted her form once more, dissipating among the crags of the ravine and reconstituting herself at the lip of the canyon. With a ferocious swipe of her hand, a swirling fist of sediment and shingle erupted from the ground beneath the vehicle, punching into the undercarriage with the force of a Skopio slamming down on its prey.

The Thornatus’ wheels could secure no purchase in the matted earth of the plateau. Perditus’ face whitened as he twisted in his seat, as though his very weight might counteract the will of an Elemental Lord. At the risk of overturning the vehicle entirely, he veered it sharply to the left, causing it to hang for a moment on three wheels. But the Thornatus could not correct itself at such velocity, tumbling over and smashing into the wall of the ravine. 

Malum counted a dozen heartbeats as the chariot tumbled across the sand, knowing the whole spectacle must have taken no more than the split part of a second. He watched as the two Glatorian were flung from the wreckage, smoke already beginning to coil from the mangled mechanics, visible even from his vantage point. There was no sympathy at the sight of his former mentor, only a cold fury. 

Turning to his aide, the exile saw a familiar fury in her narrow eyes that told him exactly what needed to be done.

 _‘Bring me their heads!’_ he bellowed.

Thoroughly stunned by the impact, Ackar staggered forward to pull Perditus clear, but the pilot shrugged him off, refusing the assistance and falling instead to his knees in a bewildered daze, hobbled by his injuries. 

“My Thornatus!” he exclaimed in horror as sparks surged from ruptured circuitry. “She’s totaled!”

At the sight of the advancing Vorox, Ackar drew his Flame Sword without a flourish. It shone a dull gray, notched and rusted in places. It was the only blade between the pair. 

“Forget the chariot!” yelled the elder Glatorian, shaky on his feet from his landing. “I’ll help you build another from scratch if we survive this!”

But Perditus was inconsolable, for he had at last seen the crimson form of Malum among the Vorox and had lost all willingness to fight. The sight chilled even Ackar, who felt suddenly as though he were walking on a razor’s edge. As the Vorox drew closer, it slowly occurred to the Glatorian that he had brawled in Atero Arena long enough to recognize a fight he could not win. 

“We fall back,” he commanded, parrying a Thornax with the flat of his blade and feeling the metal almost torn from his hands. “There’s no honor to be won here!”

Malum watched as the Vorox galloped down the slope on all-fours, hurling spears and Thornax at the attackers as they scurried for cover. Eventually, they abandoned the broken Thornatus and retreated.

“The Fire Army’s finest,” snorted the Elemental Lord as Ackar stole one final glance back before dipping beyond the slope. “Of all the armies of the Core War, it brings me the most pleasure to see their warriors flee.” 

But Malum did not share in the revelry. The mere glimpse of the Glatorian had evoked a primal rage deep within him; his impossibly clean and garish armor was an offense to the eye. For many months now, he had been conscious that Raanu might learn of his unintended survival and seek to eliminate him. Never in his wildest imaginings would he have thought that his former instructor would have been sent to hunt him down. 

“I sense a sandstorm brewing within you,” noted the Elemental Lord with a raised eyebrow.

“They did not deserve to make it this far,” growled Malum, eyes fixed on the battered Thornatus V9. “My Vorox... we struggled and sacrificed along a trail that they simply followed.”

“You are quick to anger but slow to confess a fault,” mused the former empress of the Sand Tribe with idle interest. “Many have come before them, seeking glory but lacking the capacity to achieve it. Only those who respect the Great Barren and its people may witness the truth buried beneath the surface.” 

Finally relaxing his Flame Claws, the exile turned to assess the Vorox as they gradually returned up the slope. He realized in that moment, as they gazed expectantly at their new leader, that their submission was now perfect and complete. His aide now stood faithfully by his side with a sort of worship in her dark eyes. 

“Then guide me, wise Elemental Lord,” he finally said, turning to the slope that still lay ahead. “For I have seen one world reduced to ruin by the complacency of its leaders and will not allow tragedy to befall my people a second time. Does Spherus Magna truly lie on the other side of this ravine?”

No reply came for a long and uncomfortable instant, until the Elemental Lord spoke once more, gesturing to the tip of the plateau.

“The Great Beings are beyond that peak...”

Malum charged up the slope with all the strength he could muster, his powerful feet pounding into the shale. At his heels, the fastest Vorox were scrambling to keep pace with him, knowing only the urgency with which their champion ran. 

As the gradient grew steeper, patches of weeds began to dot the slope, their thin shoots offering Malum and the Vorox support as they climbed. The exile had no time to pause, fearful that he might never get started again if he stopped. 

When at last he dug his Flame Claws into the ridge at the tip of the incline, the champion hauled himself up and braced himself, unsure what to expect from a landscape unseen since the Shattering.

“This cannot be...” he gasped between ragged breaths. 

The first thing he saw was a dry ocean bed spanning the horizon. Beyond that was the vast and incomprehensible void of an immeasurable crater, which possessed all the likeness of a wound cut across the surface of the planet. Great megaliths of bedrock and strata had been cleaved from the surface, visible even from his vantage point. The hollowed carcasses of ancient sea-creatures and Water Army battleships jutted out of the sand, blanched and scoured by the intensity of the suns.

At a loss for words, Malum stood before the unfathomable expanse, the words of Atakus echoing in his head:

_“If they still exist to be found, then they will reside in their Citadel...”_

If ever there had been a Citadel, it had surely been situated here, for the wreckage of a long-dead civilization now littered the impossible landscape.

“They were a proud people,” came the grating voice of the Elemental Lord of Sand, who had reconstituted herself at Malum’s side. “Science and philosophy and innovation were all virtues they held sacred, but, for all their combined wisdom, the Great Beings died off like Mountain Worms in a drought.”

“They’re... they’re all dead?” murmured the exile in disbelief, scanning the rubble he had traveled so far to find.

“Scattered to the wind,” chuckled the Elemental Lord. “A fortunate few took to the stars in the dying days of Spherus Magna. The rest succumbed to the Shattering in their golden palaces in this graveyard at the end of the world, little-knowing that they would be outlived several times over by the soldiers they had bred for a war that would prove to be their own destruction.”

Studying every line of the broken landscape, it slowly occurred to Malum that he had known the survivors would inherit a used world from the moment the Core War had been declared. The ruins of Spherus Magna and the decayed relics of former civilization had been everywhere: underfoot, underground, up mountains, immortalized in stories, but no living denizen of Bara Magna had gazed upon their source in 100,000 years.

“All their knowledge... all their secrets... gone?” he asked, unable to tear his eyes from the abyss that had at one time been soaked by the oceans of Aqua Magna.

“The sins of our ancestors rarely stay buried,” answered the self-proclaimed guardian of the Eastern Deadlands, her helmet conveying a rough approximation of anguish. “A great many of their blunders linger in this world yet.”

Watching as the Elemental Lord’s gaze fell upon the Vorox, her meaning was not lost on Malum. After centuries of clawing their way back to their feet after the planetary cataclysm, the Sand Tribe was nothing but a shadow of its former greatness, while the Agori still enjoyed the comforts of civilization built on the technology of their vastly superior predecessors. 

“The regression...” murmured the exile, a deep crease forming on his brow. “I always thought it to have been natural - trauma from the Shattering.”

“A parting gift from the Great Beings,” snorted the Elemental Lord, extending a hand to stroke the helmet of Malum’s aide affectionately. “They tampered with my soldiers on a genetic level, attempting to cheat evolution and acclimatize them to the confines of the Great Barren, like fish to water. We were on the cusp of victory when they began to falter...”

Wherever Malum turned, it seemed as though the Great Beings were reaching out of deep history to inexorably curse their creations. It was a cycle of desolation and ruin, perpetuated by invisible architects long-since perished. 

Feeling a righteous rage bubbling within his gut, he swore in that moment never to be shackled by the forces of destiny again.

“We are the Sand Tribe,” muttered the Elemental Lord darkly as her form began to erode in the wind, leaving Malum to grasp the reality. 

“We are what remains...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout the story, Malum adopts a number of different titles as he attempts to position himself within the hierarchy of the Sand Tribe, though no moniker is more meaningful to him than the title of Vorox Champion. In the Glatorian system, a Champion could only be named by winning the annual Arena Tournament in Atero, which was typically dominated by Vastus, Tarix, Certavus, and Ackar, the reigning champions. It is in this chapter, however, that Malum's title of Champion of the Sand Tribe if formally ratified. 
> 
> This chapter also gives credence to the popular fan-theory that a large proportion of the Great Beings did not in fact survive the Shattering, thus accounting for their inaction over the course of the storyline.


	9. Epilogue

Approaching the waystation under the cover of darkness, Atakus was drawn to the burning orange light of the distant campfire. His destination was nestled squarely at the base of a large rock, which possessed the unmistakable likeness of a Sand Bat’s fin against the night sky. Desperately, he trudged his way through the sand and hurried towards the ginger speck. 

His contact was waiting for him when he arrived, the outline of his Glatorian form visible long before he reached the rock. They had met several times since the Skrall had migrated south and Atakus now knew him as Perditus, pilot of the Thornatus V9 and Malum’s predecessor among the ranks of the Fire Tribe. 

The Glatorian was roasting a piece of meat over the flames. The flames were fueled by the coarse husk of a bleached Thornax Plant and whatever broken pieces of wood were nearby. At the sight of Atakus, he reached into his satchel and produced a skein of water, which he thrust into the Agori’s hand.

“Drink up,” he said with a hospitality that Atakus was unaccustomed to. “You’ve traveled far. No Agori should be walking these dunes by foot, Rock Tribe or otherwise.” 

The greeting was short, for both Atakus and his compatriot had traveled in secret to meet. At first he hesitated, wondering if perhaps the water might have been poisoned; the Fire Tribe were enemies of the Skrall after all and he had not made an actionable report in some time. Suspicions aside, however, he finally succumbed to desperation and began to drink. His journey through the Wastelands had left him dangerously close to total dehydration. 

“You look worse than usual,” remarked the Glatorian, as the Agori emptied the skein and sat down heavily beside him. 

“Could say the same for you,” grunted Atakus, now noticing the deep abrasions along the Glatorian's armor. 

Perditus made a grunt of acknowledgement then returned his gaze to the flames.

“It’s getting harder to travel these dunes unnoticed,” noted the Agori, choosing not to mention how many Skrall had fallen to facilitate his journey in front of the enemy. “It is a rare thing for the paths of any two travelers to cross without reason here on Bara Magna, but now the borders of the map are closing up. There are few places left to conduct our business in secret.”

“You underestimate just how many of Spherus Magna’s relics remain buried beneath our feet,” shrugged the Glatorian, rotating his skewered meat. “The Great Barren is a vast expanse littered with ever-changing hideaways and ravines, not like the ranges of the Black Spike Mountains you are used to. We will have many thousands of years left before others grow wise to our activities.”

It seemed a questionable pairing to the casual observer, but they shared a connection no two other denizens of Bara Magna could attest to: fealty to the last living Great Being. 

For thousands of years, they had operated in the shadows on opposite ends of Bara Magna, gathering information on their respective regions and guarding the secrets of the Great Beings’ civilization wherever possible. To this end, Atakus had taken great lengths to report on the various splinter factions of the Skrall in addition to the planet’s Baterra population, a feat that had only gotten more difficult with the Rock Tribe’s migration south. Perditus had assisted him on occasion, patrolling the Wastelands for signs of the rogue mechanoids. As an added precaution, the Glatorian refused to carry weapons. He instead favored the ranged artillery of his Thornatus V9, which appeared to be unusually well-hidden that evening. 

“Our mutual friend is accelerating the plan,” said Atakus with an oily murmur. “It seems events are already in motion.”

Perditus nodded grimly, as though he had just received solemn news he had been anticipating for some time. 

“We're not ready,” he muttered, lowering his skewer and allowing the flames to light up his expression. “The location of Angonce's Laboratory, the Spirit's Wish, and Marendar's Prison are still unknown to us, not to mention the unresolved crucible of tribal tension that is Bara Magna these days.” 

“He has accounted for this and more,” shrugged Atakus proudly. “These steps are not necessary to his plan. You know this as well as I do.”

Clenching his jaw in frustration, Perditus shot the Agori a look of reproach. 

“He seems to be relying quite heavily on this _Mata Nui_ ,” grunted the Glatorian, taking a hearty bite out of the meat, which had grown crispy over the course of their conversation. “With so many variables in play, so many rivaling factions and rogue elements, how can he believe the tribes will pull together?”

“It is as he so often says,” said Atakus with a wolfish grin stretching across his helmet. “A tornado soothes to a gentle breeze only as temperatures cool...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Epilogue marks the first instance of Atakus and Perditus meeting in-story. During this time, Atakus states _"A tornado soothes to a gentle breeze only as temperatures cool,"_ a phrase that the unnamed Great Being to whom he acts as an informant is supposedly fond of saying. While the identity of the Great Being would not be revealed until a year after the story, it echoes the idiom-heavy speech pattern of Velika seen in 2006.


End file.
